Dear Arthur
by A-Hug-For-You
Summary: FrUK, Rock Star Au. Four years after losing his fame, Arthur returned to England, an attempt at getting his life back on track. Unpacking his boxes, he stumbles upon his old box of unread fanmail. He soon finds a string of fanmail written by the same person, named Francis, that stand out out to him for some reason. Not knowing why or what this would lead to, he finally wrote back.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: Okay, so this is my very first multi-chapter fic yayy! This isn't actually one of my oldest or on of my most developed fics that I've got planned. In fact, this AU isn't mine at all. I wrote this AU, with permission of course, from an AU they called Rock Star AU. Their tumblr is buttschmidts . tumblr . com . (no spaces) I should totally thank them for coming up with such a wonderful AU. But yeah. Idk how often I'll update since I haven't ever written a multi-chapter fic before but I hope to do at least one chapter every week or two so please be patient. Thanks a bunch. ^_^**

_Dear Arthur,_

_I hope that you will receive and read this letter, but I'm not expecting much. After all, you are a famous singer, who probably receives thousands of letters from fangirls, and possibly fanboys, every day, so why would mine be any different? Might as well try, though. It won't hurt me._

_Moving on, my name's Francis, and I'm from France. I don't really have any reason to write to you. I just felt like it. I could say that my reason was to tell you how great your music is, but I think you already know that. I guess my reason could possibly be telling you how adorable you are. Except your eyebrows. They look like caterpillars. But your eyes. They shine like emeralds. Or perhaps stars. Either way, they're gorgeous. But I guess I'm still writing to you, for whatever reason there might be._

_Don't you love the simplicity of written letters? It's really a shame that they're not really used that much these days. I love receiving handwritten letters from someone. Writing them by hand makes you think more about what you say, so that you don't make a mistake. It's more romantic, wouldn't you agree?_

_You know, it's raining right here where I live. It's the type of rain that makes you want to just lie with your partner, not talking, just enjoying each other's company. It does get a bit dull though. Rainy and overcast days don't compliment a beautiful city like Paris. But I must say that overcast days certainly do suit London. I hear that it's dull and not beautiful, unlike Paris. But who am I to talk? I've never been to London._

_The rain reminds me of that song you wrote, "Heaven's Tears." I have to say that that is one of my favourite song of yours. The line "Now the tears are falling, and you're watching me in silence, The sky's tearing apart as I'm lost, without your guidance," is my favourite without question. I don't know why, it just stands out to me and I love it. In my opinion, these are some of your lyrics that relate to you the best. I haven't listened to all your songs, of course, you have so many after all, but out of the ones I have listened to, these lyrics describe you the best. I don't know why, it just does. No matter, it's just an opinion of mine._

_Can you do a favour for me? Doesn't really matter because I'm going to ask you anyway. I hear so many people talking about you, how they hate you, how they love you, how they want to kill you if you stop making music or if you keep making music, the usual. I guess I would fall under the category that doesn't want you to stop singing because I've seen the way you've helped people without your knowledge. Songs are powerful things that can bring emotion to even the most heartless people if it's done right. So the favour, please, for as long as you can, keep creating music. The joy I've seen it bring people is just so magical. Just keep it up, okay?_

_I guess that's everything important I have to say right now. To be honest, this probably isn't the last letter I'll send to you, but I can't help it. I love writing letters. I've included my address on the back of the letter, in case you do want to reply. So, for now I guess, this is goodbye._

_Francis, 18._

Sealing the letter in an envelope, Francis quickly scribbled the celebrity's address on the envelope. He stood up, letter in hand, walked to the front door, grabbing his jacket along the way. Taking a random umbrella from its stand, he yelled to his mother that he was heading out to a postbox and that he'd be back soon.

Francis closed the door behind him, shoving the letter into his pocket so it wouldn't get wet, and opened up his umbrella. There were few people out in the streets since many people preferred to stay indoors when the weather was as dull as it was that day. Barely being able to hear his footsteps because of the rain, he hurried down the streets, hoping he won't get soaked.

That hope went to hell when a car drove past him, drenching him with water. Francis resisted every urge to curse after the driver and instead decided to glare as they drove away. Thanking the lord that he had put the letter in the other pocket and was hopefully safe and dry, he carried on his way down the street to the nearest postbox, which wasn't as near as he had first thought.

Though it seemed like he had been walking forever, he eventually reached a postbox. Balancing the umbrella on his shoulder, he took out the letter and smoothed it out. Taking one last look at it, he slid it into the slot of the postbox. And with that, he turned on his heel and started his walk back home.

0o0o0o0o0

Arthur sat lazily in his chair in his dressing room, slightly spinning himself from side to side. It was just after one of his late shows, and he was tired and just wanted to go to bed. Unfortunately for him, being famous and all, he had the paparazzi to worry about, and he didn't want to deal with them, so he had to wait until they'd left, which again, unfortunately for him, took a hell of a long time. They usually didn't go home until about one in the morning, and it was only eleven thirty, so naturally, he was as bored as hell.

His train of meaningless thoughts was interrupted by a knocking sound, and then by the sound of the door being slammed open. He spun around in surprise, only to find a loud blond, who goes by the name Alfred, casually barging into his dressing room, followed by a much quieter blond, Matthew, who was holding a polar bear plushie that he's had for god knows how long.

"Alfred! How many bloody times have I told you to knock before you enter?! You can't just go barging into other people's rooms unannounced like that!" He yelled once Matthew had closed the door behind him so that no one could hear their conversation. But, considering how loud Arthur was yelling, it wouldn't be much of a surprise if the whole country knew what they were conversing about.

"Dude, we totally knocked! What are you talking about?" Alfred replied, shoving his hand into his chip packet that he had brought with him and grabbing a handful of chips, promptly stuffing them inside his mouth.

"You are supposed knock then wait to get permission to enter, not knock then barge straight in anyway!" Arthur said, still yelling, he continued, "And stop eating in here! You're dropping crumbs everywhere! The cleaners going to have my head for that!"

"Dude, relax. It'll be fine. You're famous, what are they going to do to you?" said Alfred, scrunching up the chip bag and throwing it into the trash can next to Arthur's dresser.

"I might be famous, but that won't stop the cleaners from killing me." Arthur stopped when he heard the sound of slurping. He saw that Alfred had somehow gained a hold of what appeared to be a McDonald's large cola. "Where the bloody hell did you get that?!"

While all this was going down, Matthew, who was leaning against the closed door, watched them with amusement. It always brought him joy, if that didn't sound too mean, to see them fight about such stupid and trivial things. When they fought was one of the few times he didn't mind being invisible because, usually, that's when he'd receive the best gossip.

He would've let them argue, but he soon remembered what they had originally came here for. They had been asked to deliver more fan mail to him. This time there were about twenty or so letters. Matthew, nor Alfred for that matter, knew why they even brought the fan mail to him. He never read it, only telling them to put it in 'The Box,' which had somehow became the name of the box that contained his hundreds of unread fan mail.

Trying to get their attention, he cleared his throat a bit too loudly and spoke, "Arthur," he stepped forward, "we didn't actually come here to annoy you, believe it or not. We only came here because we were told we had to give you more fan mail. Do you want me to put it in the box?"

"More fan mail? That's got to be about the thousandth time I've gotten fan mail today." Arthur said, somewhat surprised. "No, no. I'll do it. I need to take the box back home tonight anyway. I don't want it left here while I'm away on tour. I don't really trust the locks they have on these doors."

"Hm, okay then. Here you go." Matthew handed over the fan mail to Arthur. "That's all we came for, we have to get back anyway. See you tomorrow." He said, heading over to Alfred and dragging him to the door.

"Yeah!" Alfred butted in, "don't just leave without saying goodbye like last time! That was a dick move. You knew I wanted to come with you!"

"Goodbye, Alfred." Arthur said, putting an emphasis on goodbye as he watched Alfred leave the room, "I'll see you both tomorrow." That was the last thing he said as he heard the door click shut and the footsteps grow quieter and quieter.

Sighing, Arthur fell back into his chair and threw the fan mail he had in his hand onto the dresser. If he was completely honest with himself, he would admit that he really didn't want to go on tour. Or rather, on tour tomorrow. He just didn't have the energy to get up early to go to Sydney, his first stop. Don't get him wrong, he loved singing and he saw the joy it brought people, but it does get tiring night after night, performance after performance. But you've gotta do what you've gotta do.

He rolled his head to look at the clock on his wall. Twelve a.m. How time flies.


	2. Chapter 1: A New Start

**Author's Note: Yayy! First chapter! Never thought I'd see this one finished to be honest. But I got there soo. I also decided to get a beta for this fanfic because I thought why not and everything. Hmm. I was going to say something else but now I've forgotten. Oh yeah, now I remember. I've changed Francis' age in the prologue from 17 to 18 because I'd realised I made a mistake sometime after I posted it so yeah. That's all I have to say. ^_^**

Arthur stood in what was soon to be his living room, watching as the home removalists slowly bring his many, many boxes and pieces of furniture up into his apartment. They had been bringing things in for a few hours now and he'd grown tired of waiting. All he wanted to do was to make a start at unpacking so he could finally start his life back up again and get his life back on track as it was before.

He walked over to the nearest window ledge and sat on it, look at the street below. It wasn't the quietest street he's lived on, since the apartment block he was staying in was not that far away from London, but it certainly wasn't the loudest or busiest. It was just about perfect in his opinion, and not just a while ago he discovered that if he stood or sat at a particular angle, he could see the park quite clearly. He'd promised himself he'd have to check out the park sometime after he'd settled in.

It wasn't the sunniest of days, in fact it was probably the opposite. Overcast and grey as far as the eye could see. Arthur didn't mind it though, overcast days were his favourite days. Not too hot, not too cold and with the possibility of rain. What was better than that? Nothing. Nothing was better than that, apart from tea.

Arthur was brought out of his thoughts when someone tapped him on his shoulder. Turning around, he was confronted with one of the removalists holding a clip board and a credit card machine

"Could you sign here, here and initials here please." The man said, pointing to the spots Arthur had to sign before continuing. "And could you swipe your card here," he held up the credit card machine, "if you intend to pay via card. If not, would you please mail your cash to us by this Friday, thank you."

Taking the pen and clipboard from the man he quickly signed his name in the places he was instructed to sign and gave it back to the man. He dug his wallet from the back pocket of the casual black slacks he was wearing and took out his credit card. Arthur was just about to swipe his card when the man began talking again.

"Arthur Kirkland? You mean the Arthur Kirkland? The singer?"

Arthur hesitated, not really wanting to tell the man who he really was and what he used to be, but quickly making a decision, he replied, "Yes. I'm Arthur Kirkland, the...Famous singer." He frowned slightly.

"Ah, I knew you seemed familiar. My daughter is obsessed with you. Posters everywhere, I don't know if she still has them though. She moved out a few years ago. Ah well, cash or card?"

He frown deepened as the man spoke, him being completely oblivious to Arthur's growing displeasure. Reaching for the credit card machine, he swiped his card and quickly punched in his pin code. He handed back the credit card machine back to the man.

"Thanks man." And with than, him and all the other men (and a couple of women) left, leaving Arthur alone and in silence.

Sighing, he walked to his bedroom figuring he'd unpack everything from there first because he'll need to use that room sooner than any of the others, other than the bathroom but he'll survive. He was thankful that they didn't have to take his bed apart because it would be a pain in is arse to put it back together again. Taking the first box he saw, he picked it up, placed it on the bed and opened it. Sheets, pillow cases, towels and other linen filled the box.

Just as Arthur was about to put the sheets on his bed so he would be able to sleep comfortably that night, he heard a loud knock at the door. Letting the sheet drop onto the bed, he headed towards the door. Opening it, he saw a young looking woman with light brown hair down to her waist and bright green eyes, similar to his own holding a pie.

"Yes? Can I help you?" Arthur asked as politely as he could. He tried to avoid looking rude when he first people.

"Hm? Oh yes. I'm Elizaveta Héderváry from 21E and I just thought that you'd like this pie I baked. You know, as a welcoming gift to..." She trailed off, staring at Arthur.

Arthur checked behind him, to see if she was staring at something behind him but there was nothing. "Um, miss...?"

"Oh, um I'm sorry. You just look awfully familiar." Elizaveta apologised, looking a tad embarrassed once she realised she had been staring.

"Yeah, I get that a lot. I would invite you in for tea or coffee but I have no idea where my kettle is so.." He trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

"Oh that's alright, I've got a meeting to attend to soon anyway. I just wanted to give you the pie and.." Yet another awkward silence. This wasn't a very good first meeting, in Arthur's opinion anyway and he very much doubted that his neighbour thought any differently.

Elizaveta was the first one between them to break the silence. "I never did ask for your name, did I? I hope this doesn't sound too rude or intrusive but is your name Arthur Kirkland? Like the singer?"

Arthur inwardly sighed. If he'd known he'd get recognised that easily he might have moved to a smaller town. Perhaps London wasn't the best place to move back to, however much he loved the city. "Yes, my name is Arthur Kirkland." At one point, he did consider giving out a fake name but decided against it because it may cause future problems he had no intention of dealing with.

"Ah! I knew it! That's so awesome! To have a famous singer living opposite me.." Once again she trailed off but then promptly saying, "Awesome?! Did I just say awesome? I've been spending too much time with that stupid Gilbert. Mental note: kill Gilbert when you next see him."

"I don't mean to be rude...Er.. Elizaveta but didn't you say you had a meeting to attend to." He really didn't want to be rude to her as she was going to be his neighbour, possibly for the next few years, so he didn't want to get on her bad side. Really, he didn't. The only reason why he didn't want her staying around talking was he had enough of people in general today and just wanted to be left alone.

Elizaveta quickly glanced down at her watch as Arthur mentioned her meeting. "Oh my god, I'm going to be late!" She shouted once she realised how late it was. "I'm sorry to be rushing off like this but here," she handed him the pie, "I really hope you enjoy it and get settled here. It really is a great little apartment block. Well, okay then. Goodbye." And with that she took off down the hall towards the elevator.

Closing the door, he sighed loudly and walked to the kitchen where he placed the pie on the counter. If he was honest, it did look rather delicious and it was tempting to take a slice of it. He didn't though because he knew it was really just another distraction for him and he hated distractions, especially when he had his mind set to do something. That something was hopefully to unpack the rest of the boxes in his bedroom.

Deciding that it would probably be best to put the pie in a plastic box somewhere so it won't get too stale. Arthur dig around a few boxes that were labelled kitchen, he eventually found a box big enough to carry the pie. He placed the pie in the box and sealed the lid but not before taking one last, small smell of the pie.

Placing the box that held the pie on the counter, he took one last look of the tempting pie and headed to the bedroom, where he spent another five or so hours moving furniture to the places he wanted them to be and unpacking the endless sea of boxes that lay around the room.

It was 4:12 pm by the time he'd almost finished unpacking the boxes, with the exception of one box that sat under his window. He'd been unpacking for just about five hours now and even if it was just one box, he really didn't want to unpack it. And the pie that was sitting, waiting for him in the kitchen was calling him. It'd been doing that for the past two hours.

Arthur sighed, he knew he should just hurry up and unpack the last box so it would be done and dusted. And so, he shuffled slowly over towards the box and opened it, relieving hundreds and thousands of envelopes. It was The Box. The box he used for storing all his fanmail he didn't have the time or effort to read. None of the envelopes in the box were white as he remembered them. They were all either off white, yellow or something in between the two. He didn't question it though because the letters had been lying in the box for somewhere between four and ten years.

Picking up one of the letters, he traced the address written on the front with his finger. He flipped over the envelope, carefully opening it and sliding the piece of paper in there. It was written by a girl no older than 15 who probably would've been somewhere around 22 now. The letter was a cute one, saying how much she loved his music and how he was her idol and things along the lines of that. The ordinary fanletter a fan sent. Still, it was cute but he predicted that most of the letters in the box were like that.

He dragged the box along the wooden floor to his bed, the box being much to heavy for him to carry. Arthur placed the opened letter on the bed beside him and took out another letter and began reading it, the pie soon forgotten. His prediction was correct, however. Most of the fanmail he received consisted mostly of people telling him how they loved his music, how sexy/hot/etc. he looked, asking him to desperately be their boyfriend or asking them to reply ASAP. Some even sent him death threats and hatemail which in his opinion was hilarious. Still, he read through all the letters, even if they started to repeat themselves.

That was, until he came across a letter. This letter stuck out to him more than the rest did. It seemed honest and friendly, in a way. At first, he could've sworn that this letter was not meant for him but it was for him. The letter was just so casual, as if talking to an old friend you haven't seen in a while. He just didn't know what was different about this letter, it just was. And Arthur didn't like that fact. He didn't like it at all.


	3. Chapter 2: Just Another Day

**Author's Note: I wonder if anyone actually reads these. Hmm, whatever. I just need to let you know that APH Monaco or Monique as she's called in this fic is Francis' younger sister. Oh and I also wrote this at about 1 am, so i'm sorry to everyone who reads this now. Eh whatever, I think it's okay now. Please review~ I love reading them. Reviews make me smile ^_^ thanks a bunch**

Francis stood in the shower, head bowed and letting the water run down his face, hair, neck and whatever body part the water could reach. There wasn't that much going through his mind at that particular moment, mainly because he'd just woken up at 4:30 am, just like every weekday, except this was a Monday. Those were exceptionally worse.

Absent mindedly, he reached down and picked up his shampoo bottle that had fallen and uncapped it. It was a strange feeling to love, but Francis adored the feeling of cool shampoo being rubbed gently into his hair. He liked it best when it was done by someone else but he hadn't had anyone do it for him in years. Sighing in content, he stepped back into the water and slowly began to wash the shampoo out.

It wasn't long after that when he turned off the water and stepped into the cold air. Shivering, he reached for his towel and wrapped it around his waist. He shuffled over towards the sink and mirror, wiping away the condensation that had settled on the mirror. There was nothing unusual about his appearance. Just the same as it was yesterday.

Francis turned the cold tap on, cupped his hands underneath the water and splashed it on his face. The water was refreshing against his warm skin, it was different from the warmth that had been there before. He stood back up once he was done, again examining his appearance in the mirror. And like before, nothing had changed, except maybe he looked more awake and refreshed now.

If the air inside the bathroom was cold, than the air in the rest of the house was freezing. He quickly left the bathroom, but not before grabbing another towel so he could dry his hair, for the warmth of his clothes. Drying his hair, he quickly slipped on a pair of black slacks, a vest and a shirt that he had not yet buttoned up and headed downstairs to make himself and his sister, who had not woken up yet, breakfast.

By the time he was finished preparing his and his sister's breakfast, it was around 5:10 am. He cursed himself for not realising the time. Quickly finishing the rest of his coffee and breakfast, he poured a glass of cold orange juice, placed it on a tray where a plate of food was already waiting and quickly scribbled a note like he did every morning, promising he'd be back. Picking up the tray swiftly, he carried it upstairs and sat it on his sister's bedside table. She looked so peaceful when she slept.

Giving her a quick kiss on the forehead, he hurried down the stairs and out the door to his car waiting in the streets. It was still dark outside, it nearly always was – apart from a couple of weeks in summer where the sun rises particularly early – when he started his car up and pulled away from the curb.

To Francis' pleasant surprise, there wasn't that much traffic. He'd expected more, honestly. Not that he was complaining though, the faster he arrived at his destinations, the happier he'd was. He arrived at the restaurant, which he was proudly the head chef of, at exactly 5:29.

Even though the restaurant, or chain of restaurants rather, weren't owned by him, he was still very proud of them. They were 5 star restaurants that only the rich could afford. And because of that, the pay was decent. Compared to that of a restaurant that was 4 stars or less anyway.

When he entered the kitchen, he found a handful of chefs, waiter, and waitress' working frantically to get the restaurant prepared for today. The staff was halved today because some rich family was holding a wedding and had requested only the best. Unfortunately, Francis was told by his boss that he couldn't be one of the chefs there because he was needed there. Or that's what he was told anyway.

He'd had a suspicion that his boss didn't like him all that much for one reason or another but decided he'd stay with the restaurant. Maybe because he was the best chef the restaurant had to offer, even if he did say so himself. He didn't know and he didn't care that much, just as long as they let him work here and kept getting paid, he was happy.

Francis received a few hello's and good morning's, which he returned with his own hello's and good morning's, when he headed to complete his first job of the day which was checking the menu and seeing if anything needed to be taken off, added or altered. Any of those three things were rare and each were done maybe every month or so. This, not surprising Francis in the slightest, one of those days where changes were not needed. Everything seemed perfect and in order.

The morning slowly crept by, customers coming and going steadily, the busiest times were dinner since that's where the rich would take their beloved.

Francis always sighed at that thought. He'd never be rich enough to afford to come to a place like this and he hadn't dated in years, mostly because he was too busy taking care of his sickly sister. As soon as he realised he was thinking about it though, he'd banish the thoughts from his head and get back to whatever he was doing before.

Finally, after what felt like a eternity, Francis' lunch break came around and he headed for the back door that led to the alley behind the restaurant. That's always been the place he came to for his breaks. It was peaceful here and not cramped full of loud people trying to converse with you. Digging into his back pocket, he pulled out his phone and turned it on, seeing if he had any messages or missed calls. No missed calls, but quite a few messages. One or two from his boss, another from his sister who was wondering where he put her lunch the night before, and the majority of them from his friends Gilbert and Antonio.

They'd somehow met online a while back, maybe through an MMORPG or chatroom or something along those lines. Gilbert lived in Germany with his older brother, who if Francis remembered correctly, was called Ludwig and Antonio lived in Spain with his Italian boyfriend, Lovino (it was impossible the number of times Francis had seen him in various pictures that Antonio sent him and Gilbert.

Francis, meanwhile, lived in Paris, France in a small house with his sister who'd been sick for a long, long time. His father bailed on them when Monique, his sister, grew sick and his mother had died a few years earlier from breast cancer. He saw no need to sell their current house since it was small and a perfect size, and most of the payments on the house had been made so that wasn't a big thing to worry about.

Antonio's texts were mostly pictures of himself and Lovino at a beach. They'd both gone off to some place in the Caribbean for a holiday for around two weeks. Francis wished he could have a holiday. He hadn't had a holiday abroad in... Well, never. He'd never gone outside of France.

Sighing at that thought, he flicked over to Gilbert's texts. Apparently a friend of his, Roderich was his name maybe, introduced an internet friend of his to Gilbert. Her name was Elizaveta and by the picture Gilbert sent him, she was pretty but not his type.

Once again, he pocketed the phone and returned to the busy kitchen. His break, unfortunately, was over.

0o0o0o0o0

Francis was sure the universe was conspiring against him when he sat impatiently in his car, tapping the wheel with one finger. He'd been sitting in this traffic jam for over half an hour and had only made it a few meters. This traffic jam was almost unnatural since it was almost 11:30 pm now. Something serious must've gone down to have a traffic jam last this long. Francis didn't really care to be honest, he just wanted to go home a crawl in bed. Whatever good mood he was in this morning, was gone now and not coming back for a long while.

He took a deep breath in and sighed, leaning back in his seat, not realising he'd been sitting forward. Silence followed. Francis loved the silence. He enjoyed sitting in it, reading in it, sleeping in it and basically doing anything in it but too much of it drove him crazy. But this silence that had fell over his car was unbearable.

Making up his mind, he sat forward once again and turned on the radio, flicking it to his favourite radio station. One of the radio host's voices cut through the silence that had fallen onto him. Sitting backing in his seat again, he rolled his head so he could look out his side window and listened to the radio host.

Apparently, it was a special day today. The International Music Day, to be precise. They were playing music from all over the world or something along the lines of that. He'd zoned out a while ago (he maybe moved another four or five meters since he turned the radio on) and stopped paying attention.

It was only when the next song started playing that Francis' attention snapped back to the radio. It was a song that he hadn't heard in years. _"Heaven's Tears"_ was the song on the radio that had so quickly grabbed Francis' attention. When was the last time he heard that song? Two, three years ago. He could remember how he loved this song, how he knew all the lyrics and all the chords to play it on both the piano and guitar. He could also remember the countless times he'd written to the singer, Arthur Kirkland. What ever happened to his favourite singer?

Francis guessed that it was something he'd probably never find the answer to so he brushed the thought away, like a bug. But something about that thought annoyed him somehow and he couldn't exactly tell what that was.

0o0o0o0o0

It was 1:22 am when Francis arrived back at his home. Exhausted, but glad that he didn't have to go in for work tomorrow or the rest of the week since the restaurant was getting a whole new look, he shuffled into the house, quietly locking the door behind him. He turned to the light switch and flicked it. The hallway lit up, making the path form the doorway to the kitchen much easier.

Switching on the kitchen light, the first thing he saw was a pile of envelopes. _Great, bills. That's just grand._ Francis though to himself sarcastically as he padded over towards the letters. And he was right, most of the letters were bills – one for electricity, one for water, and one for his credit card, except for one. The address on the front was handwritten but he didn't recognise who's handwriting it was. For a brief moment, he debated to open it or not, the thought of it not being meant for him crossed his mind.

Francis made his decision quickly though and carefully opened the envelope which held a piece of paper, folded into three parts. He dropped the envelope, unfolded the letter and begun reading.

_Dear Francis,_


	4. Chapter 3: Those Goddamned Letters

_**Author's Note:**_** Okay, first things first, I'm really sorry for the long wait. I wanted to get more of this done but somehow I decided to draw instead. But here is chapter 3. This is more a filler chapter so I'm sorry if this doesn't have that much going on in it. To be honest, I was planning something more for this chapter but then I thought it might be moving too fast. So yeah, chapter 3. I would love it if ya left a review for me~ thanks a bunch ^_^**

Arthur rolled his head lazily to look at his digital clock that sat next to his bed. It read 6:21 in bright read letters. He hadn't realised it had gotten so late. One minute it was light outside and people went about their business and the next, it was dark outside and the street was deserted. Time certainly does fly when you're reading a chain of letters from a stranger (who, in his opinion, sounds arrogant and annoying yet interesting and, well, mysterious).

Sighing, he placed the letters on his bed and sat up so he could put away all the other letters that he'll read some other time. If he has time that is. Arthur closed the box again and picked it up with a grunt, not realising that it was going to be that heavy. Carefully shuffling over to his wardrobe, he dropped the box onto the floor and opened the door, before pushing the it into it with his foot.

He looked back to his bed, as he leant against the now closed wardrobe door. The small pile of letters (there must've been a hundred of them or so Arthur guessed) sat undisturbed on his bed, unaware of the chain of events that they'd caused. Pushing himself of the wardrobe, he wandered to the letters that lay innocently on his bed and shuffled them into a neat pile.

The letters new home was going to be a top draw of an old oak desk, Arthur had decided. It was the only practical place the letters could go, at least right now anyway. If he needed to, he'd move the letters to a different home later, when he'd settled into his apartment more.

The old oak desk creaked as Arthur opened the top draw. On numerous occasions, he had tried to fix the creaking sound but it never used to go away. Eventually, he'd given up and decided that he'd just have to live with it. He placed the letters in the draw neatly so that when he got down to unpacking his soon to be office, it would be easier for him to sort out his desk.

He had just closed the drawer with and _thunk_ when a thought suddenly popped into his head. Why was he keeping these letters separate? They weren't special, at least to Arthur anyway. So, why was he keeping them separate? Not knowing why he suddenly felt this strong feeling that something might just happen and it was either going to be really good or really bad and he didn't particularly find out which.

Shaking the annoying thoughts out of his head, he headed towards the place where he thought he put his phone. It was too late to cook anything for himself and even if it wasn't that late, he didn't have any food in his cupboards or the fridge. So, instead, he called a Chinese restaurant he'd seen on a pamphlet he was given earlier that day and ordered what looked the best.

Once he hung up the phone he realised that he had nothing to do. His TV wasn't set up and even if it was, it wasn't attached to the cable TV network so it would be mostly useless unless he liked watching snow. Arthur's second option was to listen to his radio but he had no idea where that was so that too, was out. Hmm, the only thing to do was read until he got all those things sorted out.

And so, he searched through the sea of boxes that littered his apartment for the boxes that contained his books. "Aha, here it is." he muttered to himself, pulling out a book from the bottom of one of the boxes that contained books. The book specifically was the first in the Harry Potter series, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone which he's read more than he'd like to admit.

Dusting off the front cover of the book, he stood up and walked to his bedroom which was the only room he had gotten to unpack because he'd gotten distracted. There was also the fact that he found it the most comfortable place to read in. You are warm and comfortable and have the overwhelming sense of security wrapped around you. So yes, his bedroom was the perfect place to read a book.

The bed groaned as he sat on it and moved his legs up onto it, finding a comfortable position to sit in. Once that position had been found he opened his book without hesitation and began reading.

He hadn't even gotten to the second chapter when his door bell rang. Sighing in frustration (he just hated being interrupted when he was reading), he put down his book and walked towards the front door, grabbing his wallet along the way. Arthur opened the door to reveal a young Eastern-Asian looking man outside his door holding a bag of, what he guessed was his ordered Chinese food.

"That'll be 13.60." was all the man said as he handed Arthur the food that smelled mouth watering.

Arthur pulled out a twenty pound note from his wallet and handed it to the young man before taking his order. "Thank you, and keep the change." was all he said as he closed the door and headed to his kitchen. He figured the best place to eat his food was the kitchen because he didn't want to accidentally get his apartment stained with Chinese food just yet.

He didn't bother to find any cutlery or a plate to eat his food with, deciding that eating out of the plastic container and eating with the cheap chopsticks that came with the food was the easiest way to go.

Sometime, in the middle of eating, his thoughts had wondered back to the letters lying in his desk draw. There was something about them that made them special and Arthur wanted to found out exactly what made them special.

It wasn't long before he'd finished eating his ordered food _and_ a slice of the pie that Elizaveta had made for him.

It was 7:06 when he returned to his bedroom to continue reading his book. His bed creaked again as he sat down on it. Looks like another creaky piece of furniture he was going to have to deal with. Great. He swung his legs back onto his bed but this time tucking them under his blanket so he could be warm. Arthur knew he wasn't going to get up any time soon so why not make yourself comfortable?

It had not even been five minutes when he heard a bing coming from the front of his apartment. And then another and then two more. Arthur looked up slowly from his book, glaring at the wardrobe in front of him as if it were the source of all his problems. He flinched as yet another bing rang though the silent apartment. He was annoyed at the very least.

Sliding his legs out from his warm and cosy blankets, he restrained himself from stomping down the hall in the direction of the bings. The bings, he found, were in the kitchen and they belonged to his phone. Someone was texting him. The only person he knew that would continuously send text even though he wasn't answered them was Alfred. He grumbled under his breath, picking up and unlocking his phone to check whatever messages Alfred had sent him.

"_yo dude, u moved in yet?"_

"_whats it like?"_

"_london i mean"_

"_dull and boring?"_

"_am I rite?"_

"_hey dude answer me"_

Arthur sighed, really having absolutely no patience to deal with him at this moment in time but, having known him for an exceptionally long time, he knew he would stop sending the texts unless he answered back.

"_**What do you want Alfred? I'm busy."**_

Bing.

"_no ur not. u just dont want to talk to me"_

"_**Was it that obvious?"**_

Bing.

"_rude much"_

"_so, u didnt answer my question. have u moved in yet?"_

"_and how is london?"_

"_dull and boring?"_

"_guessed as much"_

"_**It is not dull and boring. Now New York on the other hand. That's dull and boring"**_

"_**And no Alfred, I haven't moved in. It's 7 pm and I'm sitting on a park bench surrounded by millions of boxes. What do you think?"**_

"_wow"_

"_turn down the sarcasm will u dude"_

"_i was only asking"_

"_and new york aint dull and boring"_

"_it's the city that never sleeps"_

"_u used to live there remember"_

"_**Mmhm. I remember and it most certainly is dull and boring."**_

"_its not and u know it dude"_

"_and another"_

"_oh shit"_

"_**What?"**_

"_nothing"_

"_have to go now"_

"_manager is mad"_

"_see ya"_

"_**Goodbye Alfred."**_

If he were to be honest and not prideful like he had been, he would admit that New York wasn't that dull and boring. He should know, he _did _live there once upon a time but he wasn't going to let Alfred know that. Hell no.

He, for what seemed the thousandth time that day, walked back to his bedroom. This time though, he stopped in front of his soon to be office. Ever since he'd read those letters, they've been bugging him. Almost calling him to write back. _Yeah, as if he lives in the same house now_, he thought. That, unsurprisingly, didn't stop the urge to write back.

Arthur stood in the middle of the hallway for a solid five minutes having an internal debate as to whether or not he should write back. Sighing heavily to himself, he flicked the light on and walked into the office, digging in a few boxes to retrieve a few pieces of paper and a working pen.

Pulling out the chair that sat at his desk, he carefully sat down on it and placed the pen and pieces of paper onto the desk. He opened the top draw in which the letters sat in and searched through them to find the very first one that was written to him, happy that Francis or whatever his name was had dated each letter making it easier for him. It was, in his opinion, the most logical thing to do. Answer the very first letter.

_Dear Francis,_

_Okay, who the hell are-_

No, that wasn't a good start. He screwed up the piece of paper and threw it onto the ground.

_Dear Francis,_

_First of all, my eyebrows aren't "caterpillars". They are just fine thank you very much. I bet yours look hideous. And second, London is far more beautiful than Paris. I can tell you that because I've actually been to both of those places. So yes, who are you to talk._

_And yes, it's a shame that people hardly ever hand write anything. It's all typed. Typed out letters are all well and good but receiving a handwritten one is far better. I don't see how it's romantic though. It's a handwritten letter, not some god damn marriage proposal._

"_Heaven's Tears"? Really? That one? I'd have to say it was one of my weaker songs. I don't have a clue as to how it got to the top charts but it did. Made me more famous I guess. Not like that mattered though. My fame went to shit, as you probably know._

_That leads onto my next thing. Unfortunately, I can't do that favour of yours for obvious reasons. Another reason, other than loosing my fame to younger and more favourable artists, are that I eventually lost the energy to sing for other people. I don't care if you are mad at me for not doing your favour and I don't really care because in my defence, I tried to hang on as long as possible, for my fans, and times change. That's just something I have to live with._

_Arthur, 23_

Reading over the letter just to make sure everything made sense, he turned the page over and suddenly stopped. Did he really want to write his current address on the back? Who knows, he could be crazy for all he knew. But that familiar feeling grew in his stomach and he quickly scribbled down his address on the back of the page. Tomorrow he'd go out and buy some envelopes and mail it off to France.


	5. Chapter 4: Monique

**_Author's Note:_ Woo, guess who's late again? I've started school again but I'm hoping to update once every week now, though no promises. I think this chapter gives more info about Francis and Monique's relationship then anything. I've also found a good way to end this though it's far from ending. Not sure if you'll like it though. Also, I haven't got a beta any more so these are edited by me and I can't edit for shit so. And thank you for all the nice things you said~ I love you all ^^ Oh and by the way, I thought it was worth mentioning I use British spelling usually, not American.**

Francis suppressed a laugh that threatened to escape, opting to just sit there and silently laugh. It was hilarious to him and not in the making fun of or feeling sorry for him way either. After what? Eight years? And he finally gets the reply he'd been waiting for for about three or four years after sending the letter. Even though he was exhausted he couldn't resist the urge to laugh silently and uncontrollably.

Ever so slowly, he regained his composure and sat back up again. He hadn't laughed like that in a while and it felt good. Not since his mother died and he found Monique was slowly dying and nothing he nor the doctors did helped. Maybe there was hope still.

Placing the letter down, he slid off the kitchen stool and walked over the fridge. After moving a couple of things around in the fridge, he found what he was looking for. Leftovers from the dinner he had yesterday. Leftovers weren't Francis' favourite thing ever since he preferred fresh food but then again, he did hate wasting food so it was something he had to put up with whether he liked it or not. 

He opened the microwave door and placed the plate gently inside it before closing it again, pressing the three and started the microwave up. Three minutes was usually the time he set his dinner for though sometimes it needed more.

Once again, he sat back down on the stool at the island bench and leaned his head on his hand. Francis picked up the letter and flipped it over, surprised to find more writing on the back. It was an address. A small smile appeared on his face. 

Francis turned the letter back over and re-read the letter again and again. That was when the loud _ding!_ Of a bell almost made he fall off the stool he was sitting on. Regaining his balance, he stood up from the stool and shuffled over the the microwave and taking the plate out carefully. He placed the plate of slowly cooling food on the island bench and went to grab a knife and fork.

Sitting back down, he began to eat his food. The only major thing on his mind at the moment was the letter. Coming home late at night didn't offer much to think about. He definitely would reply to the letter tomorrow, after all, the restaurant was getting newly renovated. Francis wondered what he'd say. In all honesty, the Brit was quite rude and proud., though he hadn't expected much.

An amused smile crept it's way onto his face. Something, he felt, was happening. He couldn't quite place his finger on it. Every time he got close to pinpointing the feeling, it would quickly dart away again. It was a good felling though and to him, that was a sign of hopefulness.

He lay his knife and fork quietly on his plate and put in the sink. Francis was far too tired to wash his plate and decided that he'd just do it tomorrow. Walking to the front door, he checked to see if he'd locked then doing the same with the back door. Both locked. Lazily, he turned off the lights but not before stopping to grab the letter from the kitchen and headed upstairs into the darkness.

Francis stopped as he was about to pass Monique's bedroom. Opening it as silently as he could, he peered around the door. The only shapes he could make out where his sister and her bed since it was sitting directly under her window which she forgot to close again. He sighed, fondly though. How many times had he told her to close her window when she went to sleep. It's not like she ever listened to him that much anyway.

Quietly as humanly possible, he crept towards the window. Leaning over her, he reached for the window and clicked it shut before closing the curtains, dimming the light even more. Francis stood back up again and looked down at her. She looked so peaceful when she slept. She didn't look like someone that was slowly dying. She looked happy. Carefully, he bent down and lightly kissed her temple. "Goodnight." He whispered and slowly left her room.

He closed his own door with a click and started to strip off most of his clothes, throwing them onto the floor. He'd pick them up tomorrow, he told to himself. With only his underwear in, he stumbled in the darkness and fell head first onto his bed. Both slowly and lazily, he turned onto his side and turned his alarm off. Having his alarm go off at 4:30 in the morning on a day off was one of the worst things ever.

Francis let himself fall back onto his bed and pull his blankets up to his chin. Almost instantly he was asleep.

0o0o0o0o0

Somewhere outside, birds were chirping to each other. Loudly. Francis groaned, rolling onto his stomach. Usually, he liked birds. He liked their feathers and the songs they sang to one another, except when it was nine in the morning. And when he was asleep. The thing he most want to do at the minute was open his windows and yell at the birds to shut up and fly away to another part of Paris. If he did that though, he'd probably wake up whoever was still asleep on a Tuesday and they probably wouldn't be all that happy with him.

Sighing and grumbling, he sat up, scratching his stomach and yawning. Francis turned his head to look out the thin slither of window the curtains couldn't close. It was overcast. Great.

He swung his legs out of bed and took the first item of clothing he came across which was a white singlet. Putting it on, he stood up, shuffled to the door and into the hallway. Monique's bedroom door was opening and he heard quiet clinks coming from the kitchen.

Francis was slightly surprised by this. Usually, she didn't have the energy to get up and make herself breakfast or lunch or dinner. She'd usually get her caretaker to do it for her. Her caretaker though, wasn't here this week though since he was home. Maybe that's why she was doing it herself even though it exhausted her.

Walking down the stairs, he entered the kitchen and saw a tired and exhausted looking Monique eating some toast and cereal with a glass of orange juice sitting beside her. "Good morning," he greeted, "How are doing?"

Monique looked up from her cereal. "As well as I was doing yesterday. My hip hurts a bit more today though. It hurts more on days that are overcast or colder than usual." She explained leaning her head on her hand. "I saw this morning that you closed my window again. I told you I like sleeping with it open."

"It's not good for you though. You'll catch a cold." Francis answered as he opened the fridge and grabbed a couple eggs. "Have you taken your medicine yet?" He asked as he broke the two eggs into a frying pan. Francis could almost feel the obvious he was getting from Monique behind him.

"Yes, I've taken them, I am, though, running low on them. I think I'll run out in a few days. Mind getting me some more?"

"I have to now, don't I?" Francis replied rhetorically. "I don't want you to get sicker than you already are."

You see, when Monique was fourteen she'd started to get sick. Really sick, though her doctor had only detected it when she was seventeen and by then, it was too late. She's been diagnosed with a type of bone cancer mostly found in teenagers and young adults called osteosarcoma. Unfortunately, the cancer had spread to much to be removed via surgery. At the minute, she was undergoing radio and chemotherapy though her health has now just started to decline even faster than hoped. The doctors said she wouldn't live much more than a year.

"You worry to much Francis." She said, taking a sip of her orange juice.

"It's my job to worry. Who else will?" Francis replied, glancing to look at her over his shoulder.

A comfortable silence fell over them and the only thing to be heard was the sizzling of Francis' eggs and the crunching coming from Monique. That same silence lasted until Francis himself sat at the island bench when he'd finished cooking his own breakfast of fried egg and toast.

"I saw you got a letter yesterday. Who was it from? It didn't look like anything official." Monique asked curiously,

"It-It was from someone I sent a letter to a long time ago." He answered nervously. Francis remembered how she teased him when he wrote those letters.

"Ah, a letter from the British singer you had a crush on?" Monique teased, taking the last sip of her juice.

Francis felt his cheeks flush red. "I-I did not have a crush on him." He stuttered, taking her bait.

"Okay Francis, whatever you say. That's not the reason why you sent hundreds of letters to him." She was having fun to tease him. When was the last time she got to tease and have fun with him?

"I don't have a crush on him. I only sent him the letters because... Because... Because I wanted to and I was bored." He said, making a quick and poor excuse.

"You should be happy now. You have a chance with him."

"I-I do not." He quickly denied before adding, "Stop implying I have a crush on him. I don't!"

"Of course you don't." She said, taking a bite of her toast.

Francis only sighed heavily. This was something he obviously wasn't going to win. He didn't have a crush on that damned Brit and he knew that so why bother arguing. Picking up his knife and fork, he began to eat to distract himself from the very annoying voice in the back of his head that suspiciously sounded like Monique's.

"Are you going to write back?" She questioned.

"I am."

"Good luck."


	6. Chapter 5: It's Off To Work We Go

_**Author's Note:**_** omg i'm so sorry for the long update. I was going to do it last weekend but then I suddenly had a heap of assignments to do and test to study for and I was tired. But I did finish a fruk oneshot that i'm planning to have spin offs so there's that. I don't know if I mentioned it in any of the previous chapters but I might've said Arthur was going to be a doctor but now he's and editor so. I'd take any crititism here because this chapter hasn't been edited properly since my beta can't do it and it's almost 1 am by the time I upload this and I just want to get this up now so yeah. That's basically it.**

_**Other pairing that I now know are going to be in here:**_** PruHun, RusCan, Ameripan, Spamano**

Arthur glared at his alarm clock that was beeping loudly at him. He definitely wasn't a morning person by any means and getting up before eight in the morning was a chore but he knew he had to. If he didn't force himself out of bed and into the shower, he'd be late to he first day at work. Something he wasn't particularly looking forward to.

Of course he'd already met his boss and the people who he'd be working with and they seemed like nice people, it was just the fact that he _knew_ that some people would recognise him and being recognised was something extremely bothersome for Arthur.

Sighing, he turned off the offensive alarm and swung his legs over the side of the bed which he thought to be a bit too big for one person. Arthur sat their for awhile before standing up and shuffling to the bathroom. Quickly, he stripped and turned on the water. He hopped into the water and sighed deeply. The water felt hot and comforting against his skin and soothed his aching muscles.

Arthur bent down and picked up his bottle of body soap that smelt of mint. It was his favourite smell out of all the other ones. Soon, he had lathered the soap all over his body and stepped back into the hot water, rinsing all of the bubbles off. It wasn't long after he had rinsed off all the soap before he looked down at the bottle of shampoo.

Did he really need to wash his hair? He _did _wash it yesterday so their wasn't any point of washing it now. Arthur made up his mind a decided it was not worth his time that morning to wash his hair. After all, he had a big day ahead of him and he needn't worry about such trivial things.

Stepping out of the shower, he grabbed a towel from this rack and slowly began to dry himself. He definitely was not a morning person.

Arthur continued to keep his slow pace when he started to dress himself in a pale blue shirt and smart slacks. He debated whether to wear a tie or not but eventually decided not to wear one since he couldn't tie it anyway.

Throwing the tie on his bed telling himself that he'd put it away when he got home even though he knew he wouldn't, he shuffled to the kitchen. He's gone grocery shopping the other day and now had food to fill his fridge and cupboards. Arthur took two pieces of bread of of the packet and put them into the toaster. Toast was about the only thing he could make without it burning.

After he put the water onto boil, he leant on the kitchen bench, tapping his fingers on the hard surface waiting for his toast to finish toasting and he water to finish boiling. Something was bothering him, nagging at his mind almost, but he couldn't place his finger on what. Actually, correction. He did know what was bothering him. It was those god damn letters sitting in his desk and that one letter he _had_ sent off as a reply.

He was starting to wonder if he should have done that, send the letter off. Arthur knew though that if he didn't reply to those string of letters, they'd be bothering him and distracting him even more than they were now. There was just something about those letters that really snapped his attention. Maybe something about the writer of those letters who didn't seem like his other fans.

Arthur sighed heavily and pushed those bothersome and annoying thoughts to the back of his mind just in time for his toast to pop out of the toaster and his water to boil. Quickly, he spread butter and jam on his toast and made his tea before sitting down at the dining room table so he wouldn't make a mess in either his kitchen or his living room.

It took him not more than ten minutes to eat both slices of toast and down his cup of tea before standing back up again and dumping his plate and mug into the sink to be cleaned later than night. Arthur threw on his forest green trench coat that he couldn't remember how long he'd had it for and shuffling to his door. He picked up his keys, phone and an over-the-shoulder satchel, which only contained his laptop and a pencil case though soon he knew it was also going to be filled with manuscripts and the like.

He turned off the hallway light, locked his door and walked casually to the elevator where he was soon joined by an annoyed looking Elizaveta.

As soon as she realised that she wasn't alone, she quickly wiped her annoyed look off her face and greeted Arthur with a bubbly smile. "Ah! Hello again Arthur. How are you doing?" She asked politely, making small talk.

"Not bad, could be better. I'd have liked a few more days off before I went to work but what are you going to do." He shrugged, shifting the bag on his shoulder slightly. "And you? How have you been? You looked slightly pissed off when you were standing here."

"Oh, was I?" Elizaveta asked a bit surprised, not knowing she looked annoyed. She was annoyed though and it was mainly to do with Gilbert and being the idiot he was. Though she knew that she's forgive him in an hour or two, since she knew he, most of the time, meant well. "I'm fine though, it's just something my boyfriend said to me, not that it's too much of a big deal."

Just as she said that last sentence, the elevator arrived and both of them stepped in. "Which floor?" Elizaveta asked, being the one who was the closest to the buttons.

"The basement level car park."

"Oh, me too. What a coincidence." She replied, pressing a button located on the lower left part of the panel. "Where do you work?"

"Hm? I'm starting work at as an editor at Faye Publisher's. You?" Arthur answered, not getting into too much detail about his job.

"I'm a journalist who works for the Gloss and Glitter magazine. Sometimes I have to write articles that make me cringe because they're so embarrassing but I'm a journalist so I have to do what I've got to do." She said, leaning against the railing of the elevator though luck was not on her side since just as she did that, the doors opened slowly once again.

With a quick nod and goodbye, both of them split as they both went for their cars which were on the other side of the car park.

Arthur huffed as he collapsed into his car and closed the door with a quiet bang. He sat there not doing anything except rubbing his hands together for a little while. It was late Autumn and the air was beginning to get dry, something Arthur wasn't particularly fond of. Giving his hands a final rub, he reached for his keys and turned his ignition on. The engine purred into life and Arthur slowly started to drive out of the parking lot and speed up as he entered the street above.

The traffic wasn't as bad as he thought it would be which was a surprise to him because it was 8:37 am and this was rush hour. Arthur wasn't complaining though, the less traffic the better. It was 8:49 am when Arthur parked in an employee only parking space and quickly hurried inside.

Before he had moved into his apartment, he had started to stay in various hotels and motels looking for full-time work and thankfully, he found a job here which thankfully again, he had a degree in. A few days before he moved into his apartment, an editor-in-chief who he was to be working with showed him around including where his desk would be which is the same place he'd keep his bag and coat. He'd also been warned prior that for the first couple of weeks of him working there, he'd be one of the busiest in the office since for some reason, people thought that new editors were less strict and more flexible about the books they allowed to be published.

Arthur was glad that he'd been warned about that since he had time to prepare for the onslaught of most likely wannabe authors. Quickly, he strode to his office on the fifth floor, politely greeting the hello's and welcomes he received.

It wasn't long before the editor-in-chief, an average sized Finnish man who, is Arthur's memory was correct, said his name was Tino. He couldn't remember his last name mainly since it was such a long and foreign name to him.

"Good morning Arthur. How are you today?" He asked cheerfully directing a smile to Arthur.

Busy for the

"Good morning to you too sir. I'm fine, maybe a little on the tired side but nothing that's too big to step over. How are you today?" He answered politely,

"I'm good, thank you." He replied before placing an A3 sized piece of lamanated paper on his desk. "Here's your schedule that you'll be following for the next two weeks and every two weeks, I will collect the manuscripts that you have deemed fit to publish and then I'll have a meeting to discuss which books are actually going to be published with other editors-in-chief. Is that fine with you?"

"Mm, that's fine. So every two weeks I give you all the manuscripts I think have a chance to get published?" He asked, just to be sure.

"That's right." Tino said, before continuing. "Now in about half an hour, you have a first meeting with your first client. Just follow the schedule and you should be fine. If you need anything, you know where my office is so just knock if you need anything." He assured before giving him a short farewell and walking off to do whatever else he had to do that morning.

Arthur turned to his new schedule and sighed. He _was_ going to be busy for the next couple of weeks and the chance of a good night sleeps was becoming less and less of an option. Placing his schedule back on his desk, he stood up and headed for wherever a coffee machine was. He was tired and he had thirty minutes to kill before a man named Ivan Braginski came in.

For some reason, that name was familiar to him. Arthur couldn't put a face to the name but the name was definitely familiar and he didn't know why.

Shaking off the feeling, he walked back down the way he came and into the elevator that had just spilled out at least ten employees. How an elevator could carry so many people and be able to lift them up five stories would always be a mystery to him. Arthur stepped into the elevator and pushed the button to the ground floor since he figured that a coffee machine would be there because that's where the meeting with the editors and authors are held.

Arthur smiled a small smile to himself when he did find one near where he thought they'd be. Unfortunately, there was a line. It seemed like he wasn't the only tired one who needed a cup of coffee before they got to work. He was patient though and it was a good use of his extra time and so, he just waited in line for a cup of coffee and in ten minutes, he'd received what he'd been waiting for.

Taking a sip, he realised that it wasn't the best cup of coffee he had but it was strong, very strong and that was what he needed around that time. Arthur decided that he would drink it outside since he felt like fresh air even though he'd only been in the building for about fifteen minutes. He stepped outside into the dry air and under the overcast sky that threatened rain. Shivering slightly, he remembered he forgot his coat which was hanging on the back of his chair on the fifth floor.

Shaking his head at his stupidity, he wrapped both his hands around his cup and held his arms nearer his body. He looked around, surveying the surrounding area and the people in it. Arthur noticed that other people who he seemed to be employees of the publisher were also standing outside with either a cup of coffee or a cigarette or both. Some looked to be waiting for someone and other's seemed to be lost deep in thought.

Finishing off his own coffee, he threw it into the nearest bin and checked his watch. Five minutes to go before his first author, Ivan what's-his-last-name came in. How time flies. Arthur walked back into the building and walked up to where Tino had said that authors or editors waited for their editor or author usually waited.

Arthur suddenly feel a tap on his shoulder and he pivoted around on his heel. A man that looked to be about 180cm or about 6 ft as a rough guess stood behind him with a brown envelope in his hands about an three centimetres thick and a child like smile planted on his face.

"Arthur Kirkland?" The man said in what Arthur thought to be a Russian accent.

"Yes, that's me. You're Ivan Braginski?" Arthur asked, remembering his last name at the last second.

"Da, I am."

Now he definitely seemed familiar to Arthur. He'd met him before somewhere no doubt, since Ivan knew who he was even before they'd seen each other in person. But where Arthur had met him before he couldn't quite out his finger on. He decided to push that nagging thought away for awhile, in the same pile where he pushed the letters earlier that morning.

"Right then, follow me." Arthur said, leading the way to one of the editor and author meeting booths while trying to remember exactly what Tino had told him and from what he saw when he was being shown around, plus what he knew from university.

After both of them sat down, both Arthur and Ivan started an in depth conversation about the book that Ivan wanted to publish. Such things that came up were the plot, grammar how is he going to expand the series if it's even going to be a series at all and the like. This meeting though was shorter than any meeting between them in the future since Arthur still had to read the whole manuscript and not skim read it like he did.

Soon though, much to Arthur's surprise, their meeting was over and he still couldn't place where he had met Ivan before. He packed the pages and pages of writing into the envelope and talked Ivan to the door, bidding him a brief farewell.

Tucking the envelope under his arm, he turned to start walking back to the elevator when he was stopped in his tracks suddenly. He remembered where he'd seen him. He remembered that Matthew lived in London in his boyfriends flat. And as he remembered Matthew's boyfriend's name was Ivan Braginski.


End file.
